


The Arkenstone

by emotionalsymphony



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, Doggy Style, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Ignores Movie 2: The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, One-Shot, Pillow Talk, Pre-Sack of Erebor, Romance, Rough Sex, Slice of Life, THERE WILL BE FORESHADOWING NONE SHALL STOP ME, but still some smexy, more poetic than smexy, thorin needs love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 23:50:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17632097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emotionalsymphony/pseuds/emotionalsymphony
Summary: "There is merry laughter downstairs, drifting the halls like muffled sounds between the rotten and creaking chinks of the floorboards. Erebor looms closely behind the mist, dark rich soil awaiting to be claimed, but in this moment of breathtaking intimacy, Thorin Oakenshield--soon to be King Under the Mountain--looks to you."The king and his lionheart share a moment. And with all that's coming to happen, you can't help but feel that this is the calm before the storm.





	The Arkenstone

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in Lake Town; the night before The Company is sent off to reclaim Erebor. I binged-watch all The Hobbit movies as I died of sick and cold in my miserable sheets. If you're looking for smut there will be here, but a majority of the flow has been wedged with some poetry yada-yada haha. 
> 
> Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy : ) ! Prepare thine self for bittersweet salt.

_"Thorin."_

His name is a litany on your lips, each syllable oozing nothing short of pleasure as you moved against him. The air is chilly in the city of Esgaroth, its icy weather now more prominent under the contrast of your ~~lover's~~  touch. His hands are warm and calloused, a once delicate flesh now worn from all the hardships of his labor. You feel every crease against your supple skin, make out every bend and tale of their history as they ran so wonderfully generous against your frame. Heat pooled down the center of your waist, hissing and thriving like wildfire yet leaving you nothing but  _wet_  beneath all the tousled, constricting clothing.

For all his hubris and indifference, the dwarf still struggles to press further into you, hunger merely growing with every flex of his hips further atop yours, stiff muscles snapping in a brutally steady pace. There is merry laughter downstairs, drifting the halls like muffled sounds between the rotten and creaking chinks of the floorboards. And yet despite all the ruckus, you permitted your frostbitten ears to hear only the harmony of your quiet cries and his cracked grunts and breathing. Erebor looms closely behind the mist, dark rich soil awaiting to be claimed, but in this moment of suffocating intimacy, Thorin Oakenshield--soon to be King Under the Mountain--looks to you. His eyes are as sharp as silver, though deep and vast and  _comforting_ like a troubled sea. They are a dark blue akin to its raging waters, thundering with guilt, perhaps longing.

Agony.

Then pause.

Recognition.

Adoration.

Affection. 

It overwhelms you, swallowing you whole as your head buries further into the pillows, a sudden, sharp moan escaping past the chattering shells of your teeth. Thorin feels the pressure of your feet burrow deeper into the crimson fabric of his tunic, pressing him closer to your arousal. He gasps a ragged breath of air, shuddering as pleasure strikes it presence known. Wide palms move to your hips, releasing their hold on your bruising wrists and cooing at the darkened skin as a means of silent apology. The desire in your clouded gaze tells him that you don't mind, however and lust coaxes its slender hands round Thorin's grasp, urging it deeper behind your knees and forgoing the image of delicate human complexion. He slowly raises the twitching limbs up and pins them to your bouncing chest. You nearly whine at the new angle, biting your lips as if to subdue the reaction.

Nevertheless, Thorin Oakenshield's sharpened senses hears it all the same. He hears it amidst the rattling of his belt which still hung heavily from his hips, catches the fleeting noise amongst the rustling clothing bunched across your stomach. Thorin hears it--and it sounds painfully like _music._

"Mahal," He seethes out through grunts at the newfound position, tugging him further into your slick. 

He feels your palms: soft and trembling as they shot up to his tensed shoulders, struggling and curling their curious fingers into stray, dark locks of hair. You looked more radiant than gold under the hum of the moonlight and even brighter when his tresses fall to curtain your face. As far as Thorin allowed himself to be, the king felt nothing but smitten.

"Are you alright?" He manages to ask gruffly through the persistence of his groans.

He asks because he remembers--he always does--how fast you had both rushed into this. How fast the wine enabled you loose (but still within the right mind) beneath the confines of your own skin. Thorin remembers how you had stayed to talk despite the lighter-hearted gathering rumbling just a floor below, remembers how you allowed him to somehow confide in you as he stared into the night-fallen sky of Lake Town, speaking of victory and home and better times of the past. Remembers how you did not stare upon him with pity, but with a respect he could not figure nor fathom though still longed for all the same. Remembers how you merely uttered words of brazen loyalty and support. Remembers how your gaze shone with quiet strength, but your heart failed to fall short of kindness and patience. 

Thorin remembers the onslaught of emotion that swamped him, followed by the realization of how you had always been like that.

Remembers how tight the room had abruptly grew when you turned to stare into his gaze and actually  _looked._

How your eyes flickered to his lips simply because he had been the first to do as such in the beginning. 

Remembers how in that instance, Thorin felt nothing like himself leading his thoughts--just this once--away from burdens and grief and emptiness.

There was regret, yes.

But hesitance had seemed to vanish when his skin burned fiercer than dragon fire and the air had crackled and snapped with that same thick, heavy tension constantly threatening to tip over. He remembers abandoning the caverns of his mind and _grasping_  for an anchor around your slender waist. He remembers pulling and kisses and murmurs. Remembers all the raw, carnal lust and  ~~love.~~ Remembers how either of you failed to strip naked because each had promised to be fast and quick for he knew what was to come in the morn, both knew that time was no longer a staple. 

Thorin Oakenshield asks because he will never forget, in that sliver of a second, how you had halted him (briefly) as he pulled apart the fabric of your skirts and whispered--almost scared: "I  ~~love~~  you."

He remembers the conflict suddenly seizing his chest, lungs panting heavily for oxygen in his pleasure ridden haze. Those three words, breathy yet sincere, holding his frame stock still as the pulse on his wrist beat strongly into the veins of your thigh. You shift under him, searching, waiting, patient. He sees you, feels you, falls into you.  ~~Into love.~~  He does not say it, but the emotion is evident in his bold eyes. It is obvious and round, pounding your heart in a lightning like haste. No, he does not say it. But you see it, feel it in his quickening pulse--and those are enough words for Thorin Oakenshield. 

Your teeth and lips clash, tasting like ale and alcohol. Sweet and bitter as you ground into each other. 

  _Y_ _ou are very much alright._

That he is sure of. So, he decides to brave rougher movements, never one for soft and gentle foolery. Thorin pulls out with a groan, ignoring your frustrated cry as he sat atop his feet, hard length peeking from the open hood of his pants. Your lashes flutter open, looking thoroughly perplexed as you stared up at him through thick lashes. Both your chests seem to be heaving with stamina, cheeks flushed and hair damp. The Durin wordlessly stares down at your flustered form, harsh eyes unconsciously keeping you pinned to the duvet. Almost like a command many in The Company have learned to follow. Before you can ask about the prompt delay, his hands set work to remove his belt clipped through the loops of his breeches, back instinctively straightening as his dark irises maintained eye contact through the motions. 

The material clatters as its buckle clashes towards the floor, the sharp noise making you flinch in the slightest. He nearly falters.

Thorin drinks in your frame, his erection still unbearably upright as he stroked himself for a bit of ease. He wants to say something,  _command_  anything. The damn dwarf is a king, he should do as he pleases. Words get caught in his dry throat, mangling and pushing till he finally manages out a sentence. It is rough and low, proud even in some way--like he held some sort of dominance over you--and entirely Thorin Oakenshield.

"On your hands and knees." 

And for some reason, it sends spikes of newfound lust kindling like embers under your burning skin. Your pupils seem to only dilate further, though your body is yet to heed his command. He finds the delay irksome and firmly (but not painfully, Thorin knows the limits of his strength) grabs hold of your ankles and tugs your form just somewhat closer to his. His figure looms over yours, voice travelling like sand moving across paper, "Need I say it twice."

_No._

You scramble to turn over, excitement and thrill shooting down your spine as you thrust your hips into the air, shivering from being exposed at the cool weather. You cared not whether it looked desperate, cared not whether you looked like a village harlot, cared not because you have wanted this for as long as you could imagine and there was still that persistent fear in your conscience of never getting to experience this or beyond _this_ in the future. 

The ruffle of Thorin's clothing had your breath intensifying with every fleeting second, the mere of fact of not being able to see him only heightening your arousal. You gasp when his hands are back on your form, moving up from the curve of your knee and around the inside of your thighs, being certain to clutch at the remains of your dress and gather it out of the way. His feather-light touch lingers on the soft fat of your lap, resting tantalizingly close to your dripping sex. What on earth was he--" _T_ _horin!"_

You mewl out, eyes screwing shut when his fingers--without warning--pushed into your heat, curling to brush at the sensitive parts of its skin. Thorin tries not to, but a subdued, airy chuckle sneaks past his lips: truly an involuntary sound at how fast you were able to crumble before him. The notion is out of place, but all humor drains from the dwarf's countenance when you wiggle your hips further into his hold, the sight not far from pleasurable. His digits are thick and rough, enough to illicit another moan from your parted mouth as you gyrate your hips, clawing for more friction against his grasp.

 "Please," You whimper, touch-starved and needy.

Thorin's gaze grows heated, length twitching at the prospect of your silent begging. Color floods his cheeks as King Under the Mountain feels a greed he has never felt before--or will, he believes. His fingers begin to scissor and pump your sex, thumb stretching out to press against your clitoris. You let out a long whine, hands twisting and pulling at the sheets under your palms. You cry out shamelessly, burying your face into the blankets. Thorin breathes a shaky breath at the sight of your vulnerability. While the Durin wasn't particularly a 'glorified expert', his movements were certain and practiced, many of years of life holding some experience over your own.

But _Mahal_ , he could come undone watching you like this: skin flushed and sweaty, dark blue gown thrown over your waist, hips thrashing and squirming at his touch--his name,  _his titles_ flooding from your lips like prayers. The rest of the world had started to blur and merge into irrelevance. All he can feel is heat from your constant, hazy movement and your soft, pretty mewls as they tangled in the beddings. Thorin was focused on one thing it seems. His digits move deeper and pick up the pace, curling snugly into that one spot which had you  _arching_ just so. "Thorin, please." You nearly beg, (uncharacteristic of you, he's used to more rebellion on your part) not entirely satisfied by his hands alone. Nevertheless, you let out a perfect 'oh!' when he hits a certain area, thoroughly ending your sentence. You struggle to get out the words, too focused on arousing more pleasure. More him. So, you test your limits, rut against his fingers once more and push just a little lower than his stomach. The head of his cock brushes against your opening and that has both of you shivering in delight. His stare seems to glint. 

You open your mouth to plead, wetting your lips with distress, "I need you."

It's below a whisper, words that would haunt him forever.

_I need you._

Thorin pretends not to feel his heart stutter and pulls his fingers away from your slick, watching as a thick, translucent line hangs from his digits. You went to beg for more, power-play be damned, but the dwarf tugs your waist and pulls you flush against him. You fail to constrict your moans. Thorin rises and bends over your form, nibbling the skin of your shoulder as he speaks, tone even but ragged, "Since you asked so nicely." Only a beat passes: the stuttering pattern of your breath, the comforting circles soothed into your hips, his tranquil combination of whispered nothings. Then finally he's sliding into you once more, heady arousal surging your system. You both groan at the fulfilling sensation, sparing a few seconds to relish in each other's warmth. The movement burns and fills you all the same, stretching you in a way his digits couldn't.

Your eyelids shut close, jaw hanging open in a silent bout of pleasure. He aches to touch your body, roam his hands over every bump and imperfection as he began to thrust into you from behind, skin slapping lewdly in the shrill of the night. Your breath comes out in pants, hot air fluttering like mist in the chilly weather. 

Mahal, you've wanted this.

Wanted this for so long.

Wanted the feeling of having him fill you--complete you--wanted his rough, heavy palms burying bruises into your waist.

You could hear that same want through the filthy squelches of your sex as he pounded into you, hear the want in your whines and moans as he pushed the small of your back into the mattress, holding your bottom up closer to his girth simply because you want him to have his way with you. Thorin's knees burrowed deeper into the mattress, aching as he rolled his hips forward with just enough force to have you both keening with pleasure. There's a tension building in your abdomen, rising and falling as it tightened into a knot that threatened to come undone with his every thrust. He wasn't sure what happened, perhaps it was your voice or the tight warmth you had round his length but the hand he placed on your back begun to travel upwards, crawling and moving without warning as it suddenly snatched your hair into a firm grip.

His eyes snap open, fearing that he may have crossed some boundaries.

But you let out a cry that sounds suspiciously like a moan--and he would have settled for the former (just to be sure) had it not been for that tiny word on your lips.

"What?" He pants out, groaning with another thrust into your sex.

Thorin listens carefully, pretends that he doesn't feel that striking arousal down his libido when you mutter, so tentatively.

_"M-more."_

It's completely unlike you to sound so shy.

But he still hears it.

And it seems his body had acted upon your request faster than he could consider it. So he grabs your hair (not without a flash of hesitance) and  _tugs,_ watching with fascination as you moaned louder, head thrown back and warmth tightening around his cock. Thorin takes the advantage and thrusts just somewhat rougher into you, pulling on your tresses just as so. You can only mewl as he fucked you, only cry as the bed began to creak with the force of your movements, only moan when all you feel is him. He thrusts, chasing his pleasure (and yours) as he ran a free hand over the expanse of your body. "Thorin I'm--" You start, grounding back into him as the pull on your hair tightened somewhat. "I'm--" A moan pauses your wording as he hits a certain angle.  _"Oh fuck."_   He seems to catch onto your reaction and shifts on the bed, feeling pleased as you let out a whine. Thorin strains to stay in the position, watching in awe as his thrusts quickened in the walls of your arousal. The dwarf pulls again at your locks, enjoying the cry you emitted with it. He couldn't help his amusement.

There's breathy humor in his voice when he taunts you just so, "Who would have known you were such a minx."

No malice, just that teasing lilt he so often offered you in the past few days of your journey. The casual sound nearly surprises you.

You would have laughed as well--you tried--and yet instead, it comes out in a moan. Followed by a snarky: 

_"Shut up, Thorin."_

He allows a free hand to descend your torso, squeezing and pulling at your nipples before landing around the swollen nub above your sex. Thorin smirks ever so slightly. "Silly girl, you are louder than the forges." You don't have enough time to retort back, because he's rubbing circles into your clit in ways that could effectively shut you up.

"God, keep doing that." You breathe, senses dialed to the hundreds.

And he does. He tugs and pulls and draws patterns till you are overwhelmed with pleasure. Tears stain your cheeks at the onslaught of it all and Thorin has to hush you gently. You're close, so darn close and anyone who simply strained their ears enough would hear it. The sounds falling from your mouth are sharp and loud, accentuated by every thrust he spills so deliciously into your heat. The hand in your hair chooses to soothe your scalp, flutter over your shoulders before offering consolation to your lips. Without thinking, you bite into the hard flesh of his palm, hoping to muffle your sounds as your movements grew sloppy. The knot is tightening beyond belief, growing and growing as though it were hot and heavy in your arousal. You focus on the friction in your slick, his rough fingers on your nub, the cold weather and the sweaty sheets. Then he slides once more and it all falls undone.

Your head tosses back as your climax chases you, spreading over your body in a mind-numbing sensation. You ride it out, sobs of pleasure trailing down your cheeks and your thighs.

Thorin doesn't stop however. Your moans are a staccato of notes, going higher and higher up the scale the more he pounded into you. He's finding release, breaths amd thrusts more erratic as you squeeze so perfectly around his girth. You're so wet the sounds are hilariously lewd. Thorin mumbles something in Khuzdul, the language harsh and strained around the edges. You roll your hips despite yourself and angle your head to watch your  ~~lover~~ unravel himself behind you. He gives a strained groan, hunching over your form as he spills into you. You moan, steepling your shoulders at the sensation. Eyes fluttering shut, you relish the feeling of being so _fulfilled_ as he rolled his hips against yours. 

You both ride out your highs, legs trembling with searing pleasure. Thorin seems to flinch from behind you, pulling out in a shuddering breath. 

There is silence that follows, the stagnant air only interrupted by heavy breathing and shaky sounds of post-coital bliss. 

You sigh slowly, raising your head to stare at the night sky looming from beyond the foggy windows of the room. Lust leaves your form like an exhalation of breath, your senses slowly sharpening with every passing second. It's quiet, the after party has finally ended, you believe. Now it was the tranquil night before the clouds would begin to pour. Snow hovers like ash in the sullen sky, tickling the slanted buildings and beat-down cottages like rubble in a ruin. Reality flickers to life and teases at your conscience. Right, you recall.  _Erebor._  Dread and fatigue worms their way through your veins, stirring something akin to regret in the pits of your stomach. Amidst your ecstacy you had almost forgotten why you were here in the first place...

Perhaps...that was the point?

**_No._ **

You almost say it out loud. Thorin was more than a conquest to help you escape responsibility--and as if you would ever run away from duty. It simply wasn't you. 

The weight of the bed shifts, ruining the firmness of your rather compromising position. You jolt and whip your head around, expecting the dark lull of Thorin's gaze. Except he has fallen into the same bouts as you, those home-sick, longing eyes staring past the fog and to a lonely mountain not far beyond the rolling stones. "We leave early in the morrow," He whispers, voice subtle and gruff but still as firm as the day you met him. There is a sullen look draped on his broken features, the great sorrow of its aura harshly prodding at something raw and hurting in your chest. Lips parting to speak, you choose to offer any form of consolation. But he turns suddenly to you, blue irises locking onto yours. The gaze steals your words and whisks them away into the wind, leaving emotion and the most miniscule of movements to convey whatever your soul yearns to. His stare melts. It is soft, knowing-- _earnest_  and they speak more sentences than you could ever offer. It fills you with something else.

**~~Love.~~ **

Thorin bats away the image of the mountain from his mind a while longer and trails a comforting hand over your sweaty skin. A half-cocked smile, sincere and real, pulls at the corner of his mouth. The dwarf brushes a few locks of hair from your forehead, speaking lowly while so, "Are you alright? Dwarrows are not known to put any restraint in bedsport but I'm yet to discover the boundaries of man," A soft chuckle, "I hope I did not hurt you." 

You instantly burn a bright red but gather your dignity anyways, "I'm well and okay, thank you very much."

His grin twitches, more cheeky than it last was, "That brings me relief to hear."

A counter: "Though it wasn't like you were too concerned about my comfort when you asked me to-- _hmm?_ What was that again? Oh yes!" You cleared your throat, raising an eyebrow as the smirk vanished from Thorin's teasing expression. You speak in a tone that is hopefully many octaves lower:

_**"Get on your hands and knees."** _

The look on his face would have made you guffaw but your humor is short-lived when a pair of strong arms suddenly pull you into a tight embrace, effectively halting your jests. With your senses murky and your limbs sore, you fail to react in time. Without so much as say on your behalf, Thorin yanks you firmly into the air, chuckling as you squeaked in offense yet failed to move a muscle as he drew back against the cushions, landing with a satisfying 'whop!' The gesture is so unbelievably sneaky that it felt only foreign (yet so right) to see it on the often stoic and grumpy leader.

Something about the (ab)normality of it all makes you laugh.

Soon, you find yourself chuckling.

Mirth crinkles your lashes, the youthful mien of the notion somehow making you glow under the starlight. It looked sweet. Awfully innocent. Something refreshing amongst tales of bloodshed and ruin. Thorin watches fondly in his silence, thoroughly smitten by your pert countenance, knowing very well that beneath it all was a lionheart. You were endearing but nothing short of brave, strong yet so brazenly passionate, emotional although balanced. Witty, just, persevering--if not a little bit of a control freak. You were a marvel fallen from the stars. Not once had Thorin fail to wonder: what put you here? And:  _will they take you back?_ The smile slowly vanishes, but his eyes are still tender, roaming and searching ever crack and bend of your features. He raises a hand, tentatively palming the side of your face as though to test you were still tangible. Thorin curls circles into the softness of your cheek, the touch of his thumb light and steady. 

Could he... _lose_...you?

It was something he needed to know.

For Thorin Oakenshield had once lost everything.

"Thorin," You whisper his name again, brows furrowing in the slightest. The dwarf seems to fall out of his reverie, pupils casting down to the reaffirming hold on his wrist. A pause hangs in the silence, thick and heavy with tension. Thorin seems to be thinking, mulling. There is duty spelled out in his face again and the more you look at it, the more his hidden, casual nature began to slip and die away. This was the Thorin you often saw--and often wanted to bring peace with. His gaze hardens and with it, your heart.

It was almost automatic.

Like a siren call to tell you: it's going to be serious.

Thorin mutters your name, reaching out to grasp your arm over his, running lines and figures across its expanse. He meets your eyes, "I will not ignore what we shared tonight, but I cannot promise you anything until what must happen tomorrow transpires." He speaks with a graveness to his tone, thought not entirely bare of that gentle sincerity, "Erebor still awaits to be claimed, I cannot ignore that either."

Ah. That's what it was. The unspoken truth until it had become spoken. The tiny wall in your intimacy that blocked every possibility of a future in your head.

Uncertainty.

It was not doubt for what you both felt, that much you were sure of, but rather doubt of whether you would _live_ to share those sentiments freely. It was a railing, a safe-guard for those who did not seek to be hurt any further by unmet promises. And Thorin has been hurt beyond grief. You've learned throughout the journey what this meant for his people, how it would be home. A victory to earn what they all had lost. Something glisters in your eyes, stoking an ember that hoped to burst to life, a flicker of a flame that hummed steadily beneath your feet, always ready to ignite. It was a fighting spirit that rattled in the cages of your heart. It was understanding. You sharpen your gaze, pupils earnest and wide, hands holding firm onto your ~~lover's~~ wrist. You do your best to swat away dubiety.

"Certainly." You whisper.

The strength in that word puts a hold in Thorin's breathing and his eyelids widen a fraction from the intensity of your stare. He feels himself buzz with elation, adoration, affection, arousal. The embers of your gaze soften and you lean to brush a kiss on his fingers, tasting salt and sweat. Thorin watches you wordlessly, pulse quickening as you gaze up and stare into his eyes, searching for something. He looks to your lips. Permission.

Then admission.

Then a kiss, heated and needing but soft and gentle so as to not stirr desire. You pull apart, unsure of what has overtaken your senses, but surmising that it was some magnetic pull to one another. Searching, searching then again  _his eyes_  andyou finally find it. The emotion is clear as day, as though they were hiding in between thin compact lines of conversation, touch, breath and stares. You shudder, feeling oxygen ascend from your chest. You're besotten. And he is too.

_Love._

The word was like a breath of fresh air.

 ~~Tasting~~ love ~~on the tips of his fingers, on the tip of your tongue.~~

 ~~Just~~ love  ~~everywhere.~~

For some reason, finding what it was--what it is. It makes your eyes water.

You twine your fingers with his, lips pressed into a thin line. One breath, two. You run your thumb up the scars on his knuckles and over the cool sapphire of a ring he had forgotten to remove. You bite your lower lip, voice trembling as you struggled to say what you longed to. Somehow the words only make it out when you stare into his eyes, the dark sea spilling past your lashes and onto your cheeks. His stare holds mild surprise and an amount of empathy you did not know him capable of. Your tone cracks and so does your resolve, "But I don't want to lose you." 

The way you say 'lose' resonates in him more than it should have.

Thorin takes his cue to hold you, pulls you close and buries you into the red fabric on his chest. He brushes your hair, counts your blemishes and ignores the wet feeling of tears that blended with the sweat. He hushes your crying. For he might too.

Thorin Oakenshield looks to the mountain, feeling fear, anticipation, urgency.

Then he looks to the trembling, quiet beauty in his arms.

Then he just feels you.

And for a moment, in the deep crevices and cathedrals of his mind, he thinks that it is worth more than treasure hoards and heirlooms of white gems.

 ** _It is._** Something in him decides. (Though he won't know what till he sees it clawed from his chest with a silver blade.)

"Quiet, amrâlimê." Thorin cooes, closing his eyes to seal shut its thrashing, angry waves. A promise lingers on his lips. The only one he shall ever make before the uncertainty passes:

"Quiet now," He breathes, "I am here."

**Author's Note:**

> I told you there would be some foreshadowing hehe. Let's see if you can you list them all ; ) Any guesses as to why I named this story The Arkenstone? Tell me what you think.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments, constructive criticism, suggestions and especially those kudos are very much welcome : ) Bless!


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